In the 1980s, when you got a letter indicating you’d won something, you didn’t ask questions. You pursued that to the end, and in most cases, to the bitter end. This was serious business. So, in 1986, when my parents received such a letter, it was time to pile into our station wagon and drive to a place called Front Royal, Virginia. Continue reading “Front Royal”
I glanced down at the clock on my vehicle’s dashboard. It read 4:33 p.m.
“Plenty of time to get from Rockville, Maryland to D.C.,” I told my neighbor in the passenger seat. “The game is at 7.” Continue reading “Driving to a Baseball Game: Grand Jam”
“I hate your stupid Appalachian Trail pants,” said my wife, as we were heading south on the Jersey Turnpike. “Your phone probably slipped right out of the cheap fabric pocket and is sitting on the men’s room floor as we speak.”
She did have a point about the phone, though I was unclear where the vitriol for these amazing pants was coming from. Continue reading ““I hate your stupid Appalachian Trail pants!””